Lichtenberg 47 v Hürtürkel

Do you dream about me?

Lichtenberg 47 4-0 Hürtürkel
Hans Zoschke Stadion, Berlin
Oberliga Nordost
Saturday 22nd November 2014
Attendance: 141

When I'm not spending Saturday's watching football there's nothing I like more than to fondle mannequins in department stores. I love that smooth plastic feel and their forgiving, distant stares as I caress their plastic torsos. 

Dog in ground - tick. 

There's always a twinge of regret, I'm free to leave afterwards but they're stuck. Frozen in a shop window wearing clothes they don't like as a world of shoppers points at their bodies, without ever once making eye contact. They're stuck there on the shop floor, I've seen women forced to expose themselves in Matalan in only a bra and underpants, oh the shame of it. They're stuck there, never interacting, always staring and told never to speak - even in situations where someone accidentally bumps into them and, especially, not when someone mistakenly begins to ask them for direction to the Men's Suits section (3rd floor, take the stairs on your right)

Old men wearing hats - tick. 

But Lichtenberg 47 prove there is a way out, a world into the limelight and out of the shop widow, a chance to shine away from the drudgery of the Marks and Spencer men's knitwear section. 

Look at him. A mannequin stallion, A perfect specimen. A hero, an inspiration to all those mannequins trapped behind and left in a uninspiring world of day shifts on the shop floor and uncomfortable nights sleeping, huddled, often naked, on stock room floors. Here is a mannequin that has made it in the real world, he's escaped, we don't know how but he's escaped to a better place, he's amongst us now. Look at his rippling chest. That powerful thigh swooping through the air to strike the ball perfectly with the sole of the laces. The hair. Luscious, Blonde. Together it provides a bold statement. "Look at me, this is who I am world, I'M A MANNEQUIN AND I'M PROUD.  Look at me, look at my six pack, my hair.... don't look at my knob and bollocks, OI! Knock it off, right! I didn't have time to pick up some shorts before I did a bunk from JJB Sports. And yeah, it's November and your cock wouldn't look at his best in this chilly air. Can someone get these rocks behind me shifted please, they're killing my ankle on my follow through."

The club house is perfect. Packed with people getting drunk on an early Saturday afternoon, whilst watching the televised football. The tables are beautifully laid out, including flowers and candles to create an ambiance that's equal parts BT Sport game on a Saturday evening in a Walkabout and part doomed romantic meal in a mediocre restaurant. 

Weird number plate style sign - tick. 

The walls have league ladders. The names of Lichtenberg 47's two teams printed out on pieces of paper and ordered in accordance with the current league standings. This is interactive at it's best. Keep your red button, keep your live table updates after every soddin' goal and your Ray Winston in play's - give me a clubhouse league ladder any day. Who updates them after every match? No one would tell me. No one admitted to knowing. I have my suspicions. *points further up page to picture of mannequin in the buff*. 

Tinpot perfection right there. 

Along the corridor from the bar was the trophy cabinet, the boardroom and the toilets. The big news story was to be found in the Gents toilets. 3 urinals, one cubicle, 9 (nine) air fresheners. Not all the same either, some hung by string from pipes, some balanced on a shelf, some clung to the side of the urinals, but all of them combined to create a dizzying aroma of Ocean Breeze, Toasted Almond and Harvest Meadow. Why the need for such a plethora of fragrances? Who's causing the ungodly funk that must be masked, even if it means blowing the entire weekly clubhouse shopping budget? Have you ever smelt a mannequin's shit? I have. *taps nose knowingly* Their diet is terrible. Truly terrible. 

AiT - Bringing you the finest football photography on the web. 

AiT - Bringing you the finest football photography on the web and then bringing a very similar photo to you again right after it.

The grassy terraces. The tergrasses. That doesn't work. Scrap that.

Your average pile of leaves shoved next to a psychedelic painting of a five legged woman, wearing high heels, shooting a football from her bits, whilst simultaneously shitting a perfect triangle of footballs AS a bunch of tennis rackets and badminton (eh?) bats attack her AND AND AND WOW THIS IS REALLLLYYY MENTAL, DUDE!!.

The ground itself, which might have got somewhat overlooked in this blog, is perfect. 4 terraces covered in grass, one small area of grey seating, which is being slowly covered in grass, and a psychedelic mural. Who painted it? No one knows. I have my suspicions. Have you ever been to the opening night of an art exhibition staged by mannequins. I have, they paint some freaky shit. 

What? Oh, Lichtenberg won 4-0.